


A Study of Time

by The_Lochness_Monster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Hermione Granger, F/F, Morally Grey Hermione Granger, Professor Hermione Granger, Teacher-Student Relationship, Time Travel, Time Travelling Lesbians, Young Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lochness_Monster/pseuds/The_Lochness_Monster
Summary: 1968 England is very far cry from the one run by Voldemort in 2001. When Hermione is unintentionally thrown back 33 years, will she be able to alter the world from which she came, or will she be confined to play out what has passed?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 28
Kudos: 191





	1. Last Battles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Bellamione fic- I'm really excited for it!

The concussive bangs were almost deafening as they rattled against the stone walls of the chamber, seemingly amplified with each consecutive bounce, creating a symphony of destruction that left no question as to the extent of the damage being inflicted. She dropped to the ground as a green curse flew directly overhead. Whoever had flung the spell at her had seemingly become otherwise occupied, for the barrage she had been expecting never came. Rolling safely behind a fallen beam, she took a moment to gather her breath and plan out her next step. 

The basement wasn’t supposed to be there at all. In her research, exhaustive in nature and overdrawn in practice, there had been no mention of the cavernous room she found herself in. It had meant to be a simple operation: in and out in fewer than ten minutes, and absolutely no violence or conflict. Instead, they had found a vast basement where the study was supposed to be, and half a dozen death eaters laying in wait. 

Hermione had no time to remark on the esthetics of the hallowed ceilings or the dim torches that lined the perimeter. She was here for one reason and one reason alone: to steal the new ward system drafts. Ever since the defeat at The Battle of Hogwarts not three years ago, the death eaters had set up several safe houses, affectionately called Cesspits by the ragtag group comprised of what little remained of The Order, to perform certain experiments, that were eerily similar to those conducted during the muggle second world war. To protect these laboratories of sorts, the development of a new kind of warding system had been deemed necessary. After all, the last two wars had proven how fragile even the most secure of protection charms can be. Voldemort, in his ever-growing paranoia, would take no chances in defending these centres that provided him with “groundbreaking” research, such as quantifying the muggleborn population’s innate inferiority of magic and proving the harmful ramifications of solely practicing “light” magics. It was, of course, hand-waving at best, but the propaganda spread by the administration ensured that the majority of the magical population now took it as fact. 

A crash sounded somewhere to her right. She peeked her head out. Approximately 10 meters were dividing her from her target. Her team, a group of 4 others, were scattered about the room: one crouched behind overturned tables, two engaged duals, and one laid motionless on the stone floor not 2 meters away. The latter had a nasty cut that sliced horizontally across his stomach, causing blood and innards pouring out from it until there was more of him out than in. His eyes were frozen in terror: open wide with dilated pupils. Hermione looked on with dead eyes at what remained of her friend. At some point in the last few years, such a sight stopped being horrific and started being normal. Expected. Without a second thought to her maimed comrade, she turned toward the large shelves at the back of the room. 

She took a deep breath and flung herself from behind her cover. Not five strides in, a man appeared from her right, casting a barrage of spells that forced her to stop and turn towards the adversary. Leading the resistance had further honed her duelling abilities, and now few could match her step for step. Gone was the trepidatious witch who crumpled under pressure; now, she thrived on the adrenaline and addictive nature of not knowing her opponent’s next move. Quite a few times she had privately wondered to herself if she had slipped into insanity. It surely felt that way when putting herself in life-threatening situations brought her such unparalleled and unbridled  _ joy.  _ Nothing in her life had caused such emotion before: not acing an exam, not destroying a Horcrux, not even finding out she was a witch. Nothing. And so, despite all common sense telling her to dispose of the inferior duelist in front of her, she relished in the feeling of bettering her lesser. Her own torrent of curses began as nothing more than a trickle of school level spells that were easy for him to thwart and counter. Slowly, she built the tempo. Spell after spell left her wand, cast without so much as a whisper of their incantations. The man, who had started aggressively offensive, began to slow his attacks in favour of defending against Hermione’s. For his efforts, sweat dripped down from his face, providing a direct contrast to Hermione’s composed appearance. Her barrage caused him to progressively back away from her. It wasn’t long before he found himself pressed against the wall with nowhere to go. His eyes blew out wide in realization. A smile slowly spread across her face. She did not know the man in front of her, she didn’t even recall ever seeing him before- in person, in memory, or press. With a casual flick of her wrist, she disarmed him. His wand skidded away beneath a pile of rubble. He sunk to his knees and looked imploring up towards Hermione. 

“Please, I have a family!” He desperately begged in a shaky, squeaky voice. 

“Sectumcelera.”

Her voice was as monotone as her face was uncaring. The blood that blossomed from his chest wasn’t as wide-spread as it would have been if she had used Snape’s. Last year she had finished altering the spell to strike more precisely, ensuring an efficient, relatively painless death by cutting through the pulmonary arteries. He slumped to the ground. He tried unsuccessfully to gasp for air as blood gurgled in small spurts from his mouth, and then in an anticlimactic manner, let out his last breath.

She didn’t linger. A loud cry brought her attention back towards the entrance of the cellar. Two death eaters were engaged in a duel with Nellie, a muggleborn girl no older than 18 who had never been on a mission before. 

“Shit.” She swore. The girl wasn’t supposed to be in combat yet- she wasn’t ready. But death eaters cared not for who was “ready”, and they attacked her with abandon. Nellie was on her back foot, and if her body language was anything to judge from, nearing defeat. Hermione had to do something. She desperately looked around trying to find something that would help. She found her target and wound up.

“Bombarda Maxima!” She yelled, flinging the spell at the chandelier that hung above the duo of death eaters. It exploded with a bang, sending shrapnel outwards in no particular direction, causing her to silently cast a shield to protect herself. The debris rained down on them without distinction. She watched as Nellie was hit with a large chunk, forcing her to fall to the ground. Nellie was bloodied, but she still moved- safe at least for now. The remainder of the chandelier came crashing down directly on top of one of the wizards. She had no time to congratulate herself; a curse came rushing towards her from her left, forcing her to dodge quickly to the side. She pulled a small bead from the waistband of her pants and threw it to the ground. A great cloud of black smoke erupted from it, covering the immediate area, and giving her enough time to dive behind a toppled bookshelf. There were shouts from the death eaters who were trying to find her. They were casting blindly into smoke. Thankfully, nothing managed to get near her. They must have been distracted by the others, for the curses stopped flying by her.

A cackle sliced through the noise. It was chilling, loud, and caused a shiver to run down the length of her spine. She knew who it was.

“Come out, come out where-ever-you-are.” A high pitched female voice sang out. 

Hermione closed her eyes. Bellatrix Lestrange. It was just her luck that the lieutenant would happen to be present during what was supposed to be a covert, low-risk raid. She peeked around the structure. 

Bellatrix stood facing away from her. The older witch’s hair was calmer than it had been during the war, her new station forcing the woman back into her old high society expectations, but it was by no means tame. Half of the unruly hair cascaded down her cloaked back, while the other was restrained at the top of her head into what had been a neat bun, but was now no more than a suggestion. She sauntered almost idly along, her arms moving slowly and elegantly waving around as if she was a conductor and the chaos was her orchestra. Her head lulled side to side, up and down, bobbing to a tune that no one else could hear. Another explosion rang out elsewhere. Hermione couldn’t be sure where it had come from, the constant echo masking the origin. Bellatrix’s focus snapped to the left. It was tempting to send a curse towards Bellatrix, but Hermione had had enough run-ins with the older woman to know that there was no guarantee she would come out on top. No, a distraction would be much more useful. Slowly, and ever so carefully, Hermione pointed her wand in the opposite direction of the table with the plans and cast a simple levitation charm on one of the rubbled stones, holding it up briefly before sending it even further away from the pair. The resulting ding was not loud. It barely reached Hermione’s ears. But it was enough for Bellatrix, whose face pulled into a smile as she redirected her attention towards it. 

“Your whittle friend sang like a canary when I got my hands on him. Not so brave then. Spilt all your secrets, he did. Told me all about your plan to raid this place.”

Bellatrix paused in front of a pile of rubble near where Hermione had flung the pebble towards. Hermione, who had slowly been backing towards the ward plans, now stopped to watch with bated breath. The dark witch spun on her heel and silently cast a spell directly towards Hermione, who had no time to do anything at all to defend herself.

The explosion flung Hermione backwards into the shelves. She crumbled into a heap as laughter rang out, overcoming the ringing in Hermione’s ears, and slowly growing louder as the woman stalked closer. Hermione opened her eyes only to find the world spinning. She closed them again. When she reopened, she struggled to breathe as her eyes darted about, desperately trying to find a means to flee. Her wand had escaped from her grip and laid by her side. The bookshelf groaned. She stretched out, fingertips grazing the wand as she fumbled it until it was close enough to grasp. Slowly, she tried to sit up. 

“Ah ah ah, muddy.” The voice was closer than Hermione had expected. Bellatrix suddenly appeared, the bottom of her knee-high boot pressing into Hermione’s sternum and forcing her back to lying prone on the cold stone. “Where do you think you’re going, pet?”

The breath still had not yet returned to Hermione; the most she could manage was an undignified sputter that drew the laughter of the dark witch. The latter’s eyes were more sunken than Hermione remembered. More experienced. More haunted. 

The bookshelf creaking again was muffled by the sounds of battle behind them. Hermione tried to turn her head to take stock of the others’ situation but was stopped by a Petrificus Totalus that made her body stiffen to submission. 

“Didn’t mummy tell you it was rude to not… PAY. ATTENTION.” The last two words were each emphasized with a slash of her wand that caused two intersecting deep cuts to open across Hermione’s chest in a bloody X. She could feel the skin split and stretch outwards, the blood seeping from them and soaking her blouse a crimson red. The pain, while not as agonizing as Crucio, still was enough for her back to try and arch and a scream to fight its way out of her mouth. Both were stopped by the curse. The only things that betrayed Hermione’s pain were her eyes. They looked at Bellatrix in pain and suffering, and perhaps most of all, in contempt. To Bellatrix, the sight was as intoxicating as ambrosia. She pressed down on the younger witch’s chest.

“Oopsie. My hand slipped.” She threw her head back in laughter. Still, Hermione could not move. She tried wiggling her fingers and her toes but found no success. It hit her suddenly that she could very well die here. It wasn’t as surprising or horrifying as it should have been. Instead of terror and devastation, she found calm and an emotion not far from eagerness poking at the back of her mind. She would be able to relax. To be quiet. To stand still. For three years, she had been on the run: constantly paranoid about who or what, if anything, was tracking her. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she closed her eyes with peace of mind. Now, her body was turning cold. She could feel that death was not far off. A better woman would have replayed their regrets, gone over with them with a fine-tooth comb, but Hermione hadn’t considered herself a good woman for quite some time. Perhaps in death, she could feel the sort of peace that had eluded her in life. Her hands started to run cold. She coughed, causing a splatter of blood to drip unceremoniously down her chin. The metallic tang coated her mouth. She thought she could smell the blood. It was seductive. The vision in her eyes started to blur, and she found it increasingly difficult to keep them open and focused on the woman that had brought her nothing but pain and suffering. 

“I said,  _ no, mudpet _ .” 

Bellatrix’s voice had taken a sharper edge, the sickly sweetness draining from it. She cast a silent spell on Hermione that stemmed the blood flow and closed the wounds just enough to stop the previously persistent blood flow. Slowly, she stalked closer like an animal preparing for the final blow on its prey.

The healing Bellatrix “gifted”, if one could even call it that, was enough for Hermione’s brain to clear sufficiently enough to shift her full attention towards the dark witch who was looking at her with blatant contempt.

“Now pet, how did wittle muddy find out about a place like this?” 

Hermione was still bound by the spell and remained silent. 

“What’s that? Cat got your tongue? We can’t have that.” She flicked her wand. Control returned to only Hermione’s face. With her newfound freedom, she mustered up what courage she had left and spat a mixture of spittle and viscous blood directly into the dark witch’s face. 

“How. Fucking. Dare. You!” Bellatrix screamed, each word emphasized with a swift kick to the younger woman’s ribs, yet still Hermione didn’t speak out. 

Bellatrix stood straddled over Hermione, her chest, exposed by the tight black corset she wore, was heaving, her hands were balled into fists at her side as she shook in fury. Her lip curled up into a snarl as her crazed eyes bore into Hermione’s calm ones. It was a haunting sight. By all accounts, it should have been horrifying, but Hermione could only look on in disinterest, acceptance, and most strongly of all, defeat. Yes, here she would die. She could see the older woman’s mouth move, but the words were drowned out by a steadily building, incessant ringing whose crescendo would indicate her final breath. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a ruffling. She couldn’t bring herself to concentrate on it. Not when Bellatrix’s face had morphed into one of elation. Not when Bellatrix dropped to her knees, her body pressing against Hermione’s. And especially not when Bellatrix leaned forward and softly grabbed the nape of Hermione’s head, positioning it upright against the bookshelf in an uncomfortable position that had Hermione acutely aware of the sharpness of the shelf edge. 

Bellatrix’s hands were rough. The callouses rubbed against Hermione’s neck as the older woman moved her hands to cup both sides of Hermione’s face. This time her face moved towards Hermione’s. Hermione’s eyelids felt heavy, so very heavy. She felt them begin to drop, while her consciousness began to slip into oblivion. They were half-closed when her vision blurred. Coarse thumbs pressed against them and dragged them upward until they were pinned wide open. Bellatrix’s own normally crazed eyes were calm as they demanded Hermione’s attention, while her full lips slightly parted. Her face was close now. There was barely any room at all between the two, and Hermione had the utterly peculiar thought that Bellatrix was going to kiss her. But alas, the older woman turned her head to the side and continued forward until her breath tickled the hollow of Hermione’s ears. The hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck bristled in response as her arms erupted in goosebumps. 

“Are you ready to die, muddy? I’m going to kill you like I would a cockroach under my boot you filthy, vile thing.”

With a nimbleness that defied the woman’s sickly appearance, she stood suddenly and walked two paces away. A giggle bubbled up through her body as she lifted her wand and pointed directly between Hermione’s eyes. Hermione, still lying prone, could do nothing more than watch in abject horror as Bellatrix wound her arm up in a grandiose dramatic manner and brought it swiftly downwards as she screamed, “Avada Kedavra!”

The green light hurtled the short distance towards her, but Hermione’s eyes stayed on Bellatrix’s own. The last thing she saw was chocolate eyes widening in surprise. The last thing she heard was a wrathful screech. Then everything was black. 

  
  


* * *

She woke suddenly, immediately rolled onto her side, thankfully unable to register the pain the action caused, and vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach. Then she vomited again. And again. When her retching finally ceased, she was left with clammy hands, a damp shirt, and a tremor that travelled her entire body. A pathetic groan escaped her cracked lips. She tried to shuffle away from the sick, but only got as far as turning her back to it, so great was the tearing sensation across her chest that the movement caused. A shaky hand slipped underneath her shirt. Her fingertips traced across raised, angry scars with dried blood caked around the edges. She wasn’t sure how long she laid there, but it was long enough for her eyes to begin to adjust to the darkness that had been so all-encompassing she had nearly felt it pressing against her. 

She looked around. There was no one there. 

_ Where is everyone? _ She thought. Gritting her teeth, she ignored her protesting torso as she sat up, and propped her back against what felt like a bookshelf. The motion caused something to fall off her torso and onto the floor with a loud clank that reverberated around the room. She froze. Feverishly, she looked around, wand raised and ready to strike down anyone that came her way. Ten seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two. When it became apparent that no one was coming, she lowered her wand and allowed some of the tension that she had unconsciously created to loosen from her body. 

She debated the risks and rewards of casting a Lumos. If the death eaters were still present, it might alert them to her presence, but as it stood, she had little to no chance of actually discerning where she was. She licked her lips, flinching at the resulting sting. She nodded to herself and cast the spell before her rational side could tell her not to. The room she was in looked to be the same as it was before she passed out, with the noticeable difference of being in sound- if not neglected- condition. The tables, still in neat rows, were all intact, the bookshelves that lined the room were firmly attached to the wall and filled with books and knick-knacks, and all the furniture had a thick covering of dust. It was most curious. Was this an additional protection placed on the room? Or were the death eaters playing tricks? If she didn’t know they would never entertain such an elaborate ruse, she might have thought so. She turned her attention to the item that had fallen to the ground not three feet away, now illuminated in the warm light of the Lumos. It looked to be a small gold sphere. Unwilling, and perhaps unable, to drag herself over to it, she summoned the object to her. 

It was roughly the size of a cricket ball, with gold lettering etched across the face in a manner that was reminiscent of Harry’s snitch gifted to him by Dumbledore, and the ball itself had a weight to it that surprised Hermione. It felt as though it weighed much more than an object its size had. The surface, except the etchings, was smooth and warm- almost too hot to touch. She turned it around in her hand. On the opposite side was a small crack, where a black, viscous liquid was slowly dripping from. She held it out over the floor, and away from her body. With rapt attention, she watched as the stream collected at the bottom of the sphere dripped down to the floor, and burned a small hole into the stone. She dropped it quickly in reflex. It rolled away from her, a line of black substance showing its path. 

Feeling well enough to trust herself with the basic healing spells, Hermione cast several in quick succession to stem the light bleeding and heal several of the less drastic cuts and bruises spotting her body.

She braced herself to stand. It was better to figure out where she was sooner rather than later. Her more severe wounds, while seemingly improved, threatened to reopen at any moment, and she wasn’t keen on being alone if and when that happened. Carefully, she lifted herself onto one knee, using her arm as a brace, and continued to a standing position. Instantly her vision swam and a bout of nausea overcame her. She leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes, and waited until the spinning sensation lessened enough to warrant reopening them. Thankfully, her extendable pocket was still intact. She withdrew a spare strip of cloth from it, and summoned the sphere once more, catching it cautiously with the cloth and wrapping it so that no surface was exposed. Hesitant steps brought Hermione across the room to what, if she truly was in the same room as before, should have been the stairs to the ground floor. They were. She wasn’t convinced this was a good thing but decided to take her blessings where they came and walked up the stairs to a wooden-floored walkway that, like the basement, was covered in a thick, undisturbed coat of dust.

Her wand was still clutched tightly in her right hand as she stalked towards the front door, using the wall as a support. She came to a stop at the door. It had just occurred to her that her shirt, indeed it was generous to even call it that, was torn almost beyond recognition and so bloodied it nearly looked as though it was meant to be scarlet all along. If this was the same location, then she’d be opening the door to a muggle neighbourhood looking as though she had escaped from Jack the Ripper himself. She decided to change. Hermione lifted the edge of her shirt, wincing at how it stuck to her wounds like glue, and carefully raised it overhead. Banishment was the only thing suitable for the rag, and so she sent it on its way. Before she summoned a spare shirt from the depths of her pocket, she hastily wiped off the crusted blood of her body as best she could. When her appearance would no longer elicit screams of horror from passersby, she opened the door. It was the middle of the day. The bright sun was nearly blinding in its intensity, causing Hermione to blink rapidly. Through squinted eyes she saw dated cars lining the street, men dressed in plaid bell bottoms, and women with hairstyles that her mother sported in her youth. A horrible, sinking feeling overcame her. If what she thought had happened had indeed come to be, then she was somehow transported what looked to be decades in the past. The sphere, despite being in a pocket charmed to be weightless, felt heavy against her as realization dawned that whatever the device was had likely been the very thing that flung her backwards in time.

She leaned her back against the doorway and brought her hands to face. She felt like screaming.

“Miss, are you alright?” A man in his late 20s looked up at her from the bottom of the stoop. 

“Never better.”

“Are you… are you sure?” He eyed her fresh white shirt that already was starting to spot with blood from where she had inadvertently opened one of her many wounds.

“Quite.”

He gave her one last look, still quite clearly unconvinced, and moved to go. Hermione called after him. 

“Actually, what’s the date?”

His stare turned perturbed. “Sunday, August 11th.”

“And the year?” She pressed.

“Listen, are you sure you’re alright? Do you need a hospital?”

“I’m fine. The year sir.” Her voice adopted an edge that had been sharpened from years of leading the resistance efforts.

“1968.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you rice_and_beans for reading this over, you are a lifesaver and my one true love. I mean friend. You're my friend.  
> \---
> 
> Uh oh Hermione.


	2. Chapter 2

After hurriedly shutting the door on the far-too-curious man, Hermione sank to the floor, not even wincing when her wounds pinched and muscles protested. 1968. To the best of her knowledge, and it was a quite comprehensive knowledge, there had been no instance of such an extreme time jump besides the notable exception of Eloise Mintumble. She had mistakenly travelled hundreds of years in the past, and upon her return aged every one of those 497 years. Returning to 2001 aside, there was the very obvious question of just  _ how _ she had managed to find herself here, 33 years in the past. She supposed it must have to do with the gold ball in her pocket, but why and how the device was activated remained to be seen. As she was still uncertain how it had found its way onto her person, she wasn’t going to get answers anytime soon. 

Hermione banged her head against the front door several times. These questions, while interesting, wouldn’t help her in her current predicament, and so she did what she had become quite accomplished at over the last several years: she shoved the issue into the back of her head to tackle at a later date. 

A far more pressing problem was how she was going to survive. She had no food, no clothes- other than what she was wearing, and certainly no money. While she was fairly confident she could go to Diagon Alley without being recognized, she wasn’t sure she was willing to risk such an excursion. The ramifications for her being spotted there could ring out through the ripples of time and cause unforeseen changes. Although, as she thought more about it, if time was concrete and unchangeable as it was in her 3rd year, then everything she was going to do in this new time had already been done, and the effects of whatever she did were already felt. And if this theory held true, then would this allow her a free pass to do whatever it was she wanted to do as it had already been done? She would be bound to play her part of time’s play. Freedom of choice would be an illusion. She didn’t yet know if she found this comforting or horrifying. 

Her stomach grumbled. Apparently, it didn’t agree with questioning time theory. She found she couldn’t blame it; a headache was already starting to form. She looked down at her clothing, grimacing when she realized the state it was in and went to the parlour room off the side to nab one of the curtains to transfigure into a suitable long muggle trench coat. She pulled it close to herself and tied it off with a neat knot. In the small bathroom in the back of the house, she washed her face, carefully scrubbing off the sweat, grime, and to her surprise, blood. It seemed that at some point, she had developed a nosebleed. No wonder the man had been so insistent on asking after her health. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a brass lamp sitting atop the sturdy wooden side table next to the ancient-looking couch. She moved towards it, an idea blossoming in her head that would solve her money problems. It was heavier than it looked. She discarded the moth-hole-ridden lampshade and removed the outdated lightbulb before putting it back on the table. She pulled out her wand, closed her eyes, and turned the lamp into several expensive-looking necklaces. To her untrained eye, the diamond pendants looked valuable enough to pass as authentic. She dropped them into the recently transfigured purse- courtesy of an especially ugly plush cushion. 

With nothing left to do and no reason to linger, she departed the house once more, carefully closing the door behind her and locking it silently with her wand. She walked down the street, eyes flickering about, looking at anyone who approached with an intense distrust that was disconcerting enough to give her a wide berth. Hermione normally wouldn’t have minded, but as her goal was to blend in as much as possible, she did. This wouldn’t do. She forced herself to look intently in the direction she was headed and rely solely on her peripheral vision to scout for possible danger. If she was remembering the area correctly, and if the area hadn’t drastically changed the last 33 years, then there was a shopping street not too far from here. Onward she pressed.

The end of the street emptied onto a much busier road. Here, Hermione had no issue blending in with the crowd pressing in from every direction. She ignored her discomfort at the proximity, clutching her left hand open and shut in distraction, and walked along until she stumbled across precisely what she was looking for: an old antique store. A wooden sign with chipped lettering hung above the door, looking as though a light breeze could have knocked it down. A bell signalled as she walked in. 

“Alright there?” An old, masculine voice sounded from the back. 

The store was packed with odd knick-knacks. There were alarm clocks that looked as though they had been built at the turn of the century, a wide variety of sofas with hideous cloth prints, and an exuberant number of cuckoo clocks that were alternating calling the hour, despite it being 3:42 pm. 

“Are you open to buying?” She called out.

“Certainly, certainly. Just a moment if you please.”

A curious-looking man popped up from behind the counter. His eyes were magnified by the pair of loupes that gave him the appearance of a lemur, a fact further amplified by the squeakiness of his voice. 

“What can I do for you Luv?” 

He still hadn’t removed the glasses.

“I have some old necklaces I’d like to sell.”

“No problem then, let’s see them.”

She took out the necklaces from her pocket, laying them down carefully on the counter, and eyeing the man with a confident look that dared him to call her out for the fraud. He didn’t seem to notice. He snapped up one of the necklaces and hunched forward to examine it. He had barely even begun to look at it before he looked up at her seemingly aggrieved.

“Is this some sort of prank?” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“These are worth less than the stale baguette in my cupboard.”

She leaned forward so her left forearm rested on the counter. Her other hand reached into her pocket and quietly withdrew her wand, pointing it at the man through the display case. 

“What was that?” She said, looking over his shoulder at the small back room behind him.

“What was what?” 

He turned. Hermione lifted her wand, pointed it directly at his chest, and whispered “confundus.” When he turned back towards her his eyes had a glaze that was not present before. 

“I’m sorry, how can I help you?” His voice held the audible equivalent of his misted eyes, reminding Hermione with a sharp pang of Luna. 

“You were about to pay me for the necklaces. You had just examined them for authenticity when something fell in the back room.”

“Ah, right you are my dear. One moment please.” He shuffled over to the ancient-looking till and punched in several numbers causing the drawer to be released with a click. The man pulled out a small notepad from beneath the counter and quickly scrawled down a few numbers before ripping the page out and sliding it towards Hermione. 

“1,500 pounds for the necklaces. That’s a great deal, mind.”

“You said it was going to be 2,200.” 

He looked confused at her statement but quickly shifted back his previously vacant looking expression.

“Oh, that’s right, my apologies.” 

He scratched out the number on the receipt and handed it back. A few minutes later and Hermione was walking out of the store 2,200 pounds richer. 

  
  


* * *

It was another week before Hermione drummed up the courage and resolve to venture into Wizarding Britain on an unassuming, particularly overcast Monday in hopes the workday and weather would deter the rest of the magical population from doing their back to school shopping. She had decided to stay in the house. The dust and general neglected state proved evidence enough to warrant the decision. Her research in her own time had shown the house had only recently been purchased by a shell company owned by Voldemort supporters after being vacant for many years prior. She couldn’t exactly remember the date it had been abandoned, but she was sure enough that it wasn’t close to 1968. Besides, finding a new home base would introduce a whole new set of unknown variables that she was not confident she could account for. 

As she walked, a borrowed umbrella protecting her from the drizzle, she once again contemplated her options in navigating this “new” chapter of life; a task which she had done no fewer than 3 times this morning alone, but one which she felt obliged to do again. If this was like the time turner in her third year, then everything she was going to do already had been done, but if this was something new entirely then she could  _ perhaps _ change the tides of history: an ability that while alluring, caused her great hesitation. The power of foresight was one that was quick to corrupt. Why should she decide what happens? 

Perhaps it would be better if she found a quiet corner of the earth to escape to and enjoy the peace that had eluded her since the moment she found out she was a witch. It was an attractive idea and one that she was ashamed to admit she had spent significant time on. Did she really owe anything to the world that had shoved her and those like her at the first inconvenience? Here she was with a unique ability to sever herself from responsibility, but yet she was unable to do so. Something held her back. The names of the deceased taunted her in her mind, beckoning her towards interfering and away from running. To give in and escape would be to abandon her friends, her family, her life that had not yet been lived. So she stayed, and the question became not  _ if _ , but  _ how  _ she should help. 

There was one person that had kept reappearing in her mind: Dumbledore. The man, for all his flaws, wanted nothing more than to vanquish the Dark Lord, of this Hermione was certain. What she wasn’t convinced of was how he would respond to a broken woman claiming to be from over 30 years in the future spouting tales of dystopia and societal demise. It wasn't unreasonable to think he would believe her, but revealing her entire hand seemed nothing short of foolishness. After all, for all anyone knew, Hermione Granger  _ did not exist.  _ She was not yet even an idea in her parents’ heads. Indeed, if her memory served correct, her parents were just starting to court, the notion of kids drifting somewhere far, far away from their “present” consciousness. 

If there was one thing she had learned to loathe in the three years since The Battle, it was a lack of power. Of control. She craved it as one would coastline on a wayward boat. To give up any, even in just the form of knowledge, was so unsavoury she felt a visceral reaction to it at the very thought. But the more she went over her options in her head, the more she felt as though it was her only option. The best thing to do would be to relinquish information to him with a strict hesitance. Yes, she would talk to Dumbledore, but first: robes.

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron was exactly as it was the last she remembered. The tables were still sticky, the bar still dusty, and the glasses hanging from the ceiling were still slightly clouded. She had chosen to enter through the muggle way, as she wasn’t sure just how much the layout of Diagon Alley differed from the 00s, and she wasn’t keen on apparating into a wall that one day would be knocked down. Her hair, charmed black, hung freely around her head, shielding her lightly transfigured face from anyone who tried to look closer. No one did. She passed through without drawing interest, tapped the appropriate brick, and entered Diagon Alley for the first time in two years. In her time it was dangerous and incredibly stupid for her, undesirable no. 1, to wander about it, and so she treasured the experience now as she enjoyed views of the bustling, narrow street. She couldn’t remember a time when it felt this full. Even her first year, when Voldemort had begun to fade from people’s memories, Diagon Alley had never been this packed. 

People crowded her in every direction. Stall owners, not yet able to purchase their own store, called out from the edges promising the superiority of their wares, school children chased each other down the street as they bumped into strangers and called apologies out over their shoulders, and middle-aged men and women were doing their weekly shopping, laden with bags. These people on their own would be nothing extraordinary but combined nearly overwhelmed Hermione’s senses. There were just  _ so many.  _

“Pardon me.” A snappy voice called out behind her. Hermione started, realizing she had been standing rooted in place at the archway. She began to walk towards Gringotts after she muttered a quiet apology. 

The people around her were so unbelievably content. Happy, even. The parents called out after their children in light reprimand instead of in fear, the shoppers meandered about instead of darting to and fro as quickly as possible, and the shopkeepers, who Hermione could see through unbroken windows, were lighthearted and kept their shop doors open for all to enter. It was a far cry from her own time. Before she knew it she stood in front of the crooked marble building that, like the Leaky, looked completely unchanged. In her time, there had been mutterings of a ministry uprising against the goblins, but Hermione hadn’t yet heard of any success. Perhaps now it would never happen. 

She walked through the doorway, getting a bittersweet satisfaction as she remembered the last time she had stepped through these doors. Impersonating her torturer was not a particularly fond memory, but the gratification of besting Bellatrix had outweighed the unpleasantness. 

They had been so full of hope after stealing Hufflepuff’s cup. If they had only known. She shook herself from her thoughts and walked up to the first available goblin, nearly tripping when she realized who it was: Griphook. Fate certainly had a sense of humour, Hermione mused. Griphook’s appearance had hardly changed at all, and Hermione was left wondering what exactly a Goblin’s life expectancy was. His beady eyes looked at her expectedly.

“Hello, I’d like to exchange some muggle money.”

He grunted. Hermione had to fight the itch to smile. She hadn’t seen Griphook since their heist, and even during it she hadn't particularly enjoyed his presence, but the familiarity was so unexpectedly welcome that she found herself basking in it. 

He stuck his hand outwards towards her. She reached into her pocket and withdrew all but 100 pounds, placing roughly 2,000 in his hand. He gave her an appraising look as if he could tell they were ill-gotten gains, but said nothing and plopped a small bag of coins down in front of her. 

Ultimately, she had decided to not open a bank account- at least not yet. Truth be told, she didn’t know what the requirements were for opening one, as it had been her parents that had set hers up all those years ago. She didn’t want to risk exposing herself. It seemed an unnecessary risk. Her expanded pocket would suit her purposes just fine. 

A commotion came from the entranceway, drawing the attention of everyone in the busy bank. A middle-aged woman, tall, thin, and regal looking with dark hair pinned behind her head, strode in with the confidence of one who knew precisely the nature of her station in society. She wore a dark emerald gown that seemed more in place in the 1800s than the mid 20th century. Hermione knew instantly that this woman was a pureblood, and that the clothes she wore were surely top of the line and in vogue. The woman eyed her surroundings with disdain, her nose tilted upwards as if to look down on the rest of them physically as well as metaphorically. Her presence commanded such a complete and undivided attention, that Hermione hardly noticed the similarly tall girl standing slightly behind her.  _ Perhaps “woman” would be more accurate _ , Hermione thought as she eyed the woman up and down, drinking in the tight corset and plentiful cleavage, the billowing black dress, and the unruly hair that covered her face from Hermione’s gaze. There was a pang of recognition in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t place it. The duo’s heels clicked loudly, amplified by the cavernous nature of the lobby, as they walked up to the stall next to Hermione. 

“Goblin!” The woman snapped, her voice was just as cold, just as unwelcoming as Hermione had imagined it would be. 

The goblin in question looked up at her, his sneer solidifying as he registered who the woman was. 

“Madame Black. What a pleasure.” The goblin’s voice dripped with a sarcasm not recognized or at least not acknowledged, by the woman. Hermione sucked in a great breath of air in shock. At the noise, the girl, or woman, not yet named looked in her direction.

Like her mother, for it was now clear from her appearance that the older woman was indeed the girl’s mother, her cheekbones were high, her nose sloped upwards as if it had gotten stuck, her lips as full as her cupid’s bow was pronounced, and her cheeks were sunken inwards. But her eyes, large and dark, were the feature that sparked recognition: eyes that had stared into hers as Hermione laid prone on the cold floor. Eyes that had watched with glee as Hermione was tortured by their owner’s own hands. Eyes that had glared at her with malice and hatred as the killing curse was flung at her not one week ago.

The bag of coin Hermione had been holding fell to the ground. She couldn’t move. Her own eyes were blown wide, and she could feel a familiar pressure building in her chest, but still, she did not move. 

The girl, none other than Bellatrix Lestrange- no, Black at this point- raised her eyebrows.

“Are you going to get that?” She asked. There was no cackle nor song-like quality to her voice. It was unnerving how soothing it sounded. Hermione thought a voice like that had no business belonging to someone like Bellatrix Black. 

It was enough to shock Hermione from her odd revere. She knelt and picked up the coin purse as she repositioned her dyed hair to once again block her face. It might have been unnecessary given the self transfiguration she had done, but she was no less thankful for it. She had made her nose thinner and kinked, as though it had been broken and improperly set, her cheekbones lower and less pronounced, and her lips but thin shadows of their true shape. Hermione was confident in her disguise, but Bellatrix Black was not someone worth testing it on.

She managed to mumble a “thank you” before retreating away and through the entrance without so much as a glance backwards. The street was just as boisterous as it was when she entered Gringotts, but it no longer provided the naively jubilant atmosphere it had before. It seemed dirtied. She now knew that Bellatrix Lestrange walked these streets without judgment. This knowledge wore the innocent shine off, revealing the cheap pewter hidden underneath the gold paint. She desperately wanted to apparate back to the house, but she was here on a mission: robes wouldn’t buy themselves. So, she swallowed down her discomfort and boxed her fear away to deal with later.

Thankfully, Madam Malkin’s was almost the same as it had been in her time. The owner herself was younger, and the clothes dated, but Hermione was able to navigate acquiring a new wardrobe without issue. She was not eager to run into the Blacks again, and so shopped as quickly as possible. 

Although she had wanted to purchase other items, like a basic potioning mix, she found she didn’t dare continue, and so dipped behind a store and apparated back to the safety of the stoop of “her” house. 

* * *

There was no logic in delaying the inevitable. So, with no small amount of trepidation, Hermione apparated to the gates of Hogwarts the very next day. Gates that were firmly shut. She realized she no idea how to contact Dumbledore, or indeed, even know if he was currently at Hogwarts. It was a silly realization. She waved her wand impatiently and conjured an energetic Patronus that filled her with warmth and drove her discomfort away as it danced around her.

“Professor Dumbledore, I’d like a word with you on Order of the Phoenix business.”

The otter swam off in the direction of the castle. It was a bit of a gamble, using the Order as her calling card. She wasn’t sure if the name had yet been solidified, or even if there was a group at all. Voldemort was still several years from gaining true power- Dumbledore might not yet have formed the resistance group. At the very least she hoped that by referencing Fawkes she could at least garner enough interest to warrant him holding a conference with her. She didn’t have to wait long to find out the answer, as only a few moments after the otter had disappeared into the castle, the gates had opened in silent invitation. 

Hermione stalked her way up to Hogwarts. Like many things, it seemed both the same and drastically different than it was in her time. She put it down to the feeling: here, Hogwarts was truly a place of innocent learning and exploration, while in the future it had devolved into one of indoctrination and propaganda. The Battle of Hogwarts was three years behind her, but still, she remembered the scenes as though they were just yesterday. There, by the old oak tree at the corner of the boundary, she had seen a fourth-year Ravenclaw who had managed to sneak back in to fight, get flayed by one of the Carrows with a sickening, perverted joy. Over there, next to the main entrance, she had cast a spell that had blasted a death eater into the castle, causing his head to split open and his heart to stop beating. Her first murder. Certainly not her last. She shook these thoughts from her head as best she could: it wouldn’t do to have them muddying up her mind as she spoke to one of the most talented legilimens of the modern era. 

Evidently, Dumbledore had assumed she would know her way around the castle, as no one waited to greet her. She took it as a sign to walk in herself and quickly made her way without delay to the Headmaster’s office, where she was met with the familiar faces of the twin gargoyles who guarded the door. She was about to rattle off muggle candies when they jumped aside. She walked up the stairs; the doors opening as she climbed the last step, revealing the Headmaster’s office where none other than Albus Dumbledore sat seated behind his grand desk. He, unlike the castle, looked entirely different from what she remembered. His skin was smoother and less wrinkled, his beard barely reached his chest, and his hair was a faded auburn- the colour not yet abandoned, but most certainly well on its way. It was his eyes that were unchanged. Even now, in the presence of a stranger, they held an undeniable glint as if he knew exactly who she was and where she had come that caused Hermione to shift self-consciously in a way she hadn’t done for years. It was as though she was once again an eleven year old desperate for her Professor’s approval.

“I must say, that was an ingenious use of the Patronus charm, Miss…” His voice, the same as she remembered, trailed off in a silent request for her name. 

“Granger. Hermione Granger.” 

She had decided several days ago to use her real name with Dumbledore. He was exactly the kind of person who would be able to catch you in a lie. Despite all Hermione’s occlumency skills, she wasn’t keen to put them to the test right away, and starting the conversation with a blatant lie seemed a poor decision. 

“Well Miss Granger, shall we discuss whatever it was you wanted to speak of over a cup of tea?”

She nearly snorted at the propriety. It had been quite some time since she was welcomed and offered a cup of tea from a stranger. There had been no time and no opportunity for such niceties in war. She nodded in assent. 

He motioned for her to sit in the plush chair across from him. She couldn’t help but fidget as he poured the tea, and slid it towards her. Now wasn’t the time for nerves. She took a deep breath. 

“What I’m about to tell you is going to sound like complete rubbish.”

“Most things tend to.” He said, kindly. 

Her knee jostled up and down. 

“I can’t exactly tell you everything, I’m going to need you to trust, which is very absurd, I’m aware. But it’s for your own good. For everyone’s good, really.” She took a sip of tea. “I have… certain knowledge about what’s to come. Knowledge that could change a great number of things in a likewise great number of ways.”

His head cocked ever so slightly to one side. Hermione got the distinct sensation of being a puzzle he was trying to solve. If he was digging in her mind, he was doing so with such precision that she could not tell at all.  _ Snap out of it! _ She thought. With a final breath, she composed herself and spoke in a commanding, confident tone.

“I can’t tell you, and you don’t want to know. I’m not sure about the specifics on my end, but what I can say is that we’re entering a  _ very  _ precarious time. One which I would like to avoid if at all possible. And to do that, I’ll need your help.”

He leaned back in his chair. “And you have assurances these ‘precarious times’ will come?”

She paused. If the timeline were to remain unchanged she would, but as she had no guarantee it would, could she accurately say Voldemort would rise to power? Who knows what unforeseen changes she had already made just by her mere presence? 

“As assured as they can possibly be.” 

“And what would you suggest we do?”

“You’re aware of the threat a particular group poses, yes?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.” He gave her a pointed look. 

Hermione clenched her jaw. He was testing her. Despite his relaxed demeanour, his eyes held an edge that told her that warned her of answering incorrectly.

“Does the name Tom Riddle mean anything to you?”

If Dumbledore wanted to spar with words, well, she had a deadly riposte. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk and clasping his hands together. 

“It means a great deal. Are you acquainted?”

“We’ve met.” She said shortly. “It wasn’t a… pleasant experience.”

“And what were the circumstances of that meeting?”

“We hashed out of differences. Loudly.”

At this, he smiled and seemed to accept the answer.

“What an interesting conversation that must have been. I will admit, I’m curious as to how you managed a meeting with him as he tends to stick to a specific group, and I don’t believe you are part of it.”

“No, I can’t say I am. Let’s just say he took an impromptu meeting.”

“Jelly Belly?” He waved his wand, summoning a large bowl of the muggle candy. 

She shook her head. He continued.

“Where are you from Miss Granger?”

“England.”

She was expecting him to question further and was therefore surprised when he switched topics. “I am curious as to how you knew the name The Order of the Phoenix when I have yet to utter the name out loud, although it has been said I tend to talk in my sleep.”

“A better question might be ‘when’ are you from.” 

She spoke before she could think herself out of it. As risky as it was, she needed to trust somebody in this time, and there was no one besides perhaps Professor McGonnogal that she felt confident enough in. McGonnogal might be as loyal as they come, but she was no strategist. And make no mistake, Albus Dumbledore was, at his core, a strategist.

“Ah.”

They sat in silence for several beats. Hermione stuck her hand in her coat pocket and gripped her wand. She wasn't expecting to be cursed, but it was always best to assume the worst and be pleasantly surprised at the best. His gaze bored through her. Still, she felt no resistance in her mind. 

“I am right to assume this is not your first time walking these halls?”

“No sir. I’m quite familiar.”   
  
“And in your time I gather you’re used to combating?”

“Very.”

A large smile crept across his face. 

“Would you like a job, Miss Granger?”

“A what?”

“A job. There’s a vacancy on our staff for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”   
  


She almost laughed. 

“Do you have a hard time retaining Professors for that subject?”

“An extraordinarily difficult time.”

“I’m not sure I’d be suited for that. I have other… goals in mind that I want to accomplish.”

“Goals involving a certain Mr Riddle?”

“Centered around, more like.”

“If that’s the case, and I’m understanding correctly, which between you and me is a safe assumption, I think you’ll find you can accomplish those goals within these walls.”

She didn’t think he knew about the Horcruxes yet, at least Harry hadn’t told her he had known. Should she risk disclosing that?

“And what goals do you think I have, Professor?”

“I think you’re attuned to the rhetoric Mr Riddle is spewing, my dear. Take away his audience and what is he? A thespian without patrons is nothing more than an unhinged man monologuing on a raised platform.”

“Teaching Defense would take away his audience?” She said, doubtfully.

“Teaching morals and independent thinking would. If it’s not Tom, I fear it will simply be someone else. A hydra, of sorts- cut off one head, and two more appear. The only way to kill it is to attack where it’s most vulnerable, the heart.”

It was a compelling argument. She had thought directly targeting Voldemort would be the best, most efficient way of ensuring his following’s demise. Was Dumbledore right? Would someone else just fill in for him? There were a few she could think of immediately who fit the sadistic requirements: Dolhov, the Carrow twins, Bellatrix, the Lestrange brothers, and  Mulciber. But not all of them had the raw power needed, and even fewer had the cunning to do it. Hate was a slippery creature, though, difficult to catch and even harder to snuff out. It wormed its way into hearts, settling in and spreading until the person was so consumed by it they would do terrible things to satiate its desires.

He was right, of course- killing Voldemort would not fix all of her problems. But somehow the task of swaying an entire generation away from what she was sure was a lifetime of indoctrination was even more daunting than tracking down a few trinkets that happened to house a small shard of Voldemort’s soul and destroying them. The latter was certainly more aligned with her current expertise, and she told Dumbledore as much.

“I don’t think I’m the right person for that.”

“Aren’t you? Who else would know exactly what the stakes were? Who else could be so devoted to the cause?”

She stayed silent, musing over his words. He continued before she could think of anything to say in response. 

“Miss Granger, if I may be so bold, I’d like to offer my services for acquiring an adequate identity for you.”

This had been what she was hoping for. Even if she decided to remain as low profile as possible and track down the Horcruxes, she would still need some sort of identity that could hold its own under scrutiny. Confondus’ and obliviates were all well and good, but there was no telling where her quest would take her, and Hermione was not one to enjoy being caught unprepared. 

“What did you have in mind?”

The perpetual twinkle in his eye flashed once more as he gave her a clinical once over.

“I think you look like someone from Australia don’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes. Surely he couldn’t know her parent’s location? Parent’s who should just be entering university. If it were anyone else, she would have thought it a mere coincidence, but Dumbledore was notorious for having a talent for knowing things he had no business of knowing. It was a subtle reminder for her to not get too comfortable in the man’s presence. He may mean well, but he was a Chessmaster who was more than willing to sacrifice a few pieces to win the game.

Still, she couldn’t help but wince. Even four years later the memory of obliviating her parents haunted her. It had been necessary, of this she was sure, but it didn’t stop the sharp pang in her heart every time she was reminded of what she had done. Monica and Wendell Wilkins were alive. Were safe. Were happy. Even if she was nothing but the former, having given up on the luxuries of happiness and safety years ago, the hollowness in her heart was a price she was more than willing to pay.

“I don’t have an Australian accent.”   


“Ah, but you wouldn’t my dear. What, with being born and raised in England, only to move away to Australia for your father’s work.”

“And what does he do?” Despite the circumstances, Hermione found herself amused.

“Did do, I’m afraid. A tragic potioning accident. Rather shocking, what with him being a professional brewer.”

“Any my mother?”

“A pureblood, I suspect. Unless I’m very much mistaken, there was a Rowan McNair who attended school overseas and passed away far before her prime. How fortunate her daughter now returns.”

There was no mistaking that glint in his eyes. Hermione realized that the man was enjoying himself. To her surprise, she found she was as well.

“No one was in contact with her?”

“From all accounts, she tended towards solitude.”

She hummed. 

“A half-blood wouldn’t be influential enough.”

“No, you’re quite right. Perhaps your paternal grandmother was a,” He tapped his finger against his chin, “French witch? One of the Duponts?”

“I’d assume you have a way to reinforce this story?”

“They’re an especially, shall we say, fertile family. I doubt anyone would question the validity. As to your schooling records, the Wattlebrush Headmistress owes me a favour or two. I’m confident she would be able to provide adequate paperwork.”

She licked her lips. She knew, oh she knew, that Dumbledore would surely cash in this favor later. But it was one she desperately needed, and she could not hope to obtain it on her own. 

“Then I’ll leave you to write your letter.”

Dumbledore chuckled. He stood and she followed suit. 

“I shall see you on August 31st then, my dear.”

With a final handshake and a promise to arrive at 10 am sharp, Hermione left. 

As she passed the gates, she turned back to the castle. In two weeks she’d return and call it home once more. She disappeared with a crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you to rice_and_beans for your help!! A real one.
> 
> Also thank you kaaate for coming up with the aussie magic school name: "wattlebrush." It's ridiculous and I love it.  
> __
> 
> How do you guys think Hermione will be as a professor?  
> I suspect she will be assigning many-a-essays. Maybe even work Hogwarts, a History into it. Somehow.
> 
> Next chapter: their "first" meeting? Yoikes


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